


Would It Kill You To Be A Bit More Careful

by Buddy_Turbohell_Taggart



Category: Doom (Video Games), Half-Life
Genre: Canon typical mentions of violence, Multi, Mute Gordon, a bit of hurt/comfort, a bit of there was only one bed, freeguy117 apartment au, they/them pronouns for Slayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 09:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30086802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buddy_Turbohell_Taggart/pseuds/Buddy_Turbohell_Taggart
Summary: "I wanna boy to keep the bed warm while I showerI wanna boy to keep the bed warm while we're watching tvI wanna boy to keep the bed warmWhen the whole house is freezingI wanna boy who isn't anything like me"- I wanna boi, PWR BTTMGordon endures an injury on a scouting mission turned battle, and Doom Slayer has to take care of him to the best of their ability.
Relationships: Doom Marine | Doom Slayer | Doomguy/Gordon Freeman/John-117 | Master Chief
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Would It Kill You To Be A Bit More Careful

"You are going to have to be more careful out there. If me or John have to keep carrying you up the staircase, the neighbors are going to get suspicious," Slayer was having an oddly familiar conversation with their roommate as they found him once again held together by the salvaged remains of a few medkits and the pure stubbornness to go down without a fight.

Their chastising seemed to do no good. Not only was this not the first time they had carried his limp body up seven flights of stairs, but their passenger could not even seem to acknowledge the concerns once again being levied against how all his hemming and hawing over strategy continued to get him hurt. Granted, their passenger was not much for conversation in general, but still....

Maybe they were just being overprotective. They went out with no plan, no armor, and no means of long range attacks, and they were fine. Sure, maybe their passenger lacked formal military weapons training, but from what they had read up on, Doctor Gordon Freeman was one of the most competent destructive forces his universe had ever known. He had to know what he was doing, at least enough to be safe, right?

That's what was really bothering them. The uncertainty of whether of not Gordon was going to pull through yet another blast or scrape or tumble ate at them. They knew it wasn't their responsibility to protect him nor did he need any coddling, but as much as they were reluctant to admit it at times, Gordon had really grown on him since they had first been stuck together. They couldn't bare the thought that he was out of commission, especially if it was preventable.

It was moments like this in particular that really got to them. It was moments where they had to carry Gordon after a brutal fight, seeing the splotch of blood already drying against a beaten up t-shirt, how pale his skin was already drawn so gauntly over his slim face, the way all the sweat had made his normally well-kept auburn hair stick to his forehead, it did something to them. These quite trips where Gordon seemed practically lifeless scared them more than anything. The thought that someone so strong as so stubbornly determined to live against all odds could be gone like that brought into question the sustainability of constantly fighting to protect the Earth if it could hurt the very people who deserved a life on it more than anyone.

Finally, the apartment door was in front of them. Finally, they could drop the fretting and what they did best, get things done. Gordon might have been easy to carry, but that didn't negate the fact whatever wounds he sustained were going to be much more manageable once he was set down.

After a moment of struggling to keep Gordon propped up while trying to fidget a sticky key into an aging lock, the door creaked open. It would be a relief if only Gordon had stirred a little bit at the noise. 

The apartment was dark, no traces of their other roommate. That was probably for the best. If John had been there, neither of them would ever hear the end of it about how better teamwork could have prevented so many unnecessary hardships and the power of subtle combat communication and whatever Spartan magic of friendship level crap he felt was so important for even the most simple of scouting missions.

"Are you in there, Gordo?" they half-whispered as they made their way through the minefield of gear left in a haphazard heap by the front door.

No verbal response, but his head seemed to tilt a bit and the tiniest movement of his eyes under his lids seemed to occur. In terms of Gordon's typical answer, especially when half asleep, this one might be considered rather expressive. 

Following the small pile-up by the entrance, it was a relatively straight path to the bedroom where they could at least attempt to get Gordon sorted out, at least after bumping the light switch with his hip.

Past the barren living room with its chipped coffee table, uneven couch, and boxy television set, they turned into the short hallway and through the thankfully open door into the apartment's equally meager bedroom.

Alright, they had gotten Gordon here in almost one piece. What next?

A simple, open question seemed like the best place to start to get a better idea of Gordon's injury if he was willing to share, "Are you going to tell me what happened out there?"

Again, there was no verbal response, but at least Gordon's eyes were open and looking in their general direction.

Honestly, they would have been more scared if Gordon had responded. Mustering up the physical and mental energy to speak would have implied urgency and a problem that couldn't be fixed by just a bed and a few band aids.

"Fine, fine. Gonna help you even if you aren't giving me much to work with here," they said more to comfort themself as they finally set Gordon down.

He looked a lot better now than he did being hauled over their shoulder as the hiss of downed demons filled the otherwise deserted clearing. It was a start.

They were starting to feel a bit better about what came next, presumably at least of week of changing sopping band aids while Gordon insisted he was fit for another mission, until Gordon started shifting in his former serene position on top of the mountain of covers.

"At this rate, you might be my worst patient yet," their tone was teasing but the underlying worry about him moving so much was evident in their voice was evident.

And then, he pulled it out, a glimmering line of metal that held the answer to the disaster that was the mess of the end of their last battle from the pocket of his scraggly hemmed cargo shorts and offered it up.

"A clip of uranium coated bullets? I cannot believe you found these...and kept them in your coat- is that safe?"

Gordon weakly shrugged back at them. Figures the guy who worked around toxic sludge wasn't worried about radiation poisoning. 

They would have asked where he had managed to find them, but the answer was so evident now. It was why he must have taken such a risky swing at that Marauder in the first place which ended up in the wound he was nursing now. He must have spotted them in those unwieldy belts they kept and knew such a specific resource would be valuable. They weren't sure whether they should commend him on having such a good idea or shake him for doing something so stupid for a handful of ammo.

They settled for somewhere in the middle, "This is the nicest thing someone has ever done for me, but you shouldn't have."

Gordon weakly offered the clip  
Right. That was some sort of nicety around here and not just a way to point out the risk that Gordon took was insane.

They tried a more straightforward approach, "Can I pay you back some how?"

Gordon patted the scant amount of space not occupied by him being sprawled on the apartment's sole bed. 

"Don't you at least what me to look at the gash."

He rolled his eyes and patted again.

Who were they to argue? Gordon knew the nature of his injuries better than they did among other motivating factors.

Gingerly, or as gingerly as they could manage, they placed themself on the edge of the bed.

Carelessly, or as carelessly as someone as precise as Gordon could manage, they were being pulled in dubiously close to their wounded roommate.

Scrambling to reorient themself, they asked the first thing that came to mind, "Planning on using me as a wound compress?"

It was the most reasonable explanation for why Gordon would let them this close, wasn't it? Even fighting side by side, there was some quiet, unnamable distance between them, something lost in missed glances and lingering touches and unspoken fears that kept them silent. They would much rather be useful than wrong.

Seeming compliant with the suggestion, they found their warm palm pressed against the starch of a band aid and the chill of Gordon's skin. They also found the arch of Gordon's back pressed to their chest. It was certainly....an odd choice for medical aid.

A heat source, that must be what Gordon was after. Their company was merely secondary. He was woozy from blood loss, that was all. In fact, if their brain didn't feel close to short circuiting, they probably would objected to all the moving he had done to be together like this.

Then again, what did they really have to worry about?

It wasn't like Gordon hadn't rejected a proper patching up before, granted even if it was just because the premise of bio foam was mildly terrifying to someone not used to the practice.

Better yet, he looked content. That was hard enough to achieve at times for anyone under this roof. 

The distance between life and death had widened, and they were now closer than ever. 

Gordon was safe. Gordon was alive and safe and in their arms. If they could only guarantee this for every mission, then they might finally be able to relax. For now, a small victory and the smallest upturn of a smile on Gordon's face would have to do.


End file.
